


...ready for it?

by cr7



Category: Football RPF
Genre: FC Barcelona, M/M, Prison, Real Madrid CF, neymes but huge crismes bromance oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-30 14:25:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12110676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cr7/pseuds/cr7
Summary: he wanted to be a professional footballer, but instead, he was standing in front of madrid penitentiary wearing slacks and a blue button-down with the name j. rodriguez sewn in it with cheap, black thread. yup, he was living the life.





	1. Chapter 1

When James David Rodriguez Rubio, born July 12, 1991, in the beautiful city of Cucuta, Colombia, was a mere 13 years, 5 months, and 12 days old, he asked his Ma if he could quit school to focus on his football career. She looked at him as if he grew 3 heads- not 2- 3. James begged for a chance, saying if his spell as a full-time footballer failed, his mother could ship him off to the _Estados Unidos,_ legally or not, and he would graduate Harvard with flying colors.

 

A year later at 14 years, 6 months, and 20 days, Pilar Rubio, mother of James David Rodriguez Rubio, allowed her eldest child to ditch his studies to develop his football, much to the dismay of James’s little and only sister, Juana.

 

At 17 years, 8 months, and 5 days, James was banging goals left, right, and center at Envigado Futbol Club. He was scoring with his left foot, right foot, head, knee, thigh, and once, his ass. Fuck Harvard, he thought, he had made it.

 

However, at 18 years, 9 months, and 12 days, James suffered from a nasty tackle from a _Nacional_ player which twisted his leg in ways they should not twist. He survived, but his football career? Not so much.

 

James, at 19 years, 3 months, and 29 days, he- young, dumb, more than a bit broke, and with no proper education, except his elementary diploma, had no idea what to do. Does he follow the path of his fellow _amigos_ and work in a sweaty McDonald’s, throwing away trash and cleaning windows, hoping on one day, one lucky day, someone would discover his secret talent of gluing and glittering shit like nobody’s business? No, he was James fucking Rodriguez. He should be able to call himself James fucking Rodriguez without looking more pretentious than he actually is.

 

After 2 years of working at said McDonald’s, a 21 years, 3 months, and 2 days old James decided he’d had enough. How could he go from breakthrough football star (in his eyes) to mopping the floors of a decade old fast food restaurant which, in James’s opinion, tasted like shit in a box. He asked his Ma if he could apply for a green card because he now saw himself as a future Harvard grad. Pilar laughed and patted James’s back, and kindly told him that boat’s already left the harbor. James was confused. He planned on taking a plane to America, not a boat, that would be stupid. Pilar sat down at their small kitchen table, grabbed James’s hand and told him in her most motherly voice, “You’re not going to find a good job here.” James only laughed and let go of Pilar’s hand, “Of course I’m going to find a job in my own house, Ma, that’s ridiculous.” and James stood up, gave his mom a kiss on the cheek, and headed out for his shift. Pilar only sighed and shook her head.

 

James finally thought he had gotten his life under control, at 25 years, 0 months, and 0 days, when his Ma was taking pictures of him in his gown and mortarboard, while he was blowing out his 25 candles cramped onto one cupcake because Juana was too fucking cheap to buy a whole cake or more than one cupcake. 4 years prior, James had decided to go back to school, because in this world you can’t do anything without a piece of paper that metaphorically tells you to go fuck yourself, so he applied for a small, local college that luckily accepted his elementary diploma and his secondary school’s long division quizzes (which he aced, by the way). Now he could barely look at that piece of paper without tears started to form out of the corner of his eyes. And on his birthday! He got his most wanted present on his birthday! James called it _un milagro de Dios_ , a miracle from God. Juana called it a coincidence. James chose to believe himself.

 

At 25 years, 0 months, and 1 day, James realized his ambitions of becoming a multimillionaire was too much for his beloved country to handle. Pilar suggested that he should move to Spain, “I have a sister, Maria, your _tia,_ she hardly visits because she lives so far away, but she’s a landlady, and I think she can get you a special family discount for _un piso_ .” James considered it, he knew that moving to Spain was the best possible place for him to live. Well, other than the U.S, but the only English he knew was ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’ and ‘go choke on a dick’. But he didn’t want to leave his family. At least if he moved to America, there would be some sort of comfort knowing he was on the same geographic landform as his family; Spain was an entire ocean away from Colombia. James decided to look up his _tia’s_ complex on Google Earth. It seemed like a genuine, nice place to live (until he could buy a mansion, of course) until he walked his person down the road to see the area and there was a fucking _prison_ not even 20 miles away from the complex. “I’m not living next to a prison, what if someone escapes? They could murder me. I can’t bathe in my own cash if I’m 6 feet under being eaten by ants.” He told Pilar the next day. Pilar told him it’s safer than the U.S because at least in Spain, he knew someone in his Tia Maria. James thought about it for another night, tried to imagine himself roaming the streets of Madrid, he thought of becoming a season-pass holder for Real Madrid (he was sure he could’ve played there if he was still playing football), and he thought of getting a job there and being able to provide for his family. He thought and thought and thought until it was too much and he fell asleep on his dusty, old bed. “I’m going to Spain,” he told his Ma with tear-stained cheeks. She gave him a hug and told him he made the right decision, she knew it.

 

At the airport, James hugged his Ma and sister like they were going to explode if he let go. Juana let his tears stain her jacket, but couldn’t help spilling a few tears of her own. “I’ll miss you,” he said. “No shit,” Juana laughed and playfully smacked his bicep. James wiped off his tears and smiled. This was good for him, this was what’s best. He would finally get his life on track. When he would return to Colombia, he would return with buckets and buckets of money. He would be able to buy Juana that expensive dress she always wanted; and he’d get his mom a nice, new car. He’d buy his family a new house. A beautiful 3 story house, with a swimming pool and a big kitchen and rooms bigger than their current house. He’d give the 2 most important people in his life the life they wanted- the life they deserved. He would make his Pa, wherever he was, the proudest man in the world. He promised. He gave Juana and his Ma one last hug, before waving goodbye and stepping on the plane that would change his life. At 25 years, 9 months, and 10 days, James David Rodriguez Rubio, born July 12, 1991, in Cucuta, Colombia, was moving to Madrid.


	2. Chapter 2

Finding a job was harder than James thought. No high-profile business would hire James for pretty obvious reasons. One, he was a complete foreigner and had barely lived in Spain for more than 2 months. Two, he hadn’t got a good enough education- he hadn’t even finished secondary school and apparently, his college degree wasn’t good enough (he regretted not going to Harvard). And three, he was barely scraping through life; he was living in a _piso_ his aunt owned and let him live in it, free for the first month even. He had no car, no current stable salary, and sometimes skipped dinner in order to buy breakfast the next day. It was like he was destined to work in a McDonald’s. Oh, how he wished he could find the Nacional player that ruined his career and break both of his legs. He had wondered whether this truly was a big mistake, if he should just move back to Colombia and continue at the familiar fast food restaurant a street away from his house. At least he would have a job, which was more than he had here. But he knew he couldn’t. He couldn't go back to his Ma’s crestfallen expression, not judging him, but just sad it couldn’t work out. He refused to quit so easily. He continued job hunting, to no success. He applied to McDonald’s as a joke, he got the job. James didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. However, it all changed one Saturday morning when Tia Maria mentioned a new job opening... at the prison, “I think they’re low on staff, guards. My friend’s husband’s little brother works there. His name is Iker.” James raised his eyebrows at her, “You’re kidding, _actually_ ”. Maria shrugged.

 

“Your resume is shit, not going to lie,” James slouched in dejection, ready to be declined, “but we’re low on staff and you seem like a pretty smart kid so...” James immediately sat up straight, eyes wide, “So I’m hired?” he was answered with a nod, “Oh thank you so much, Mr. Zidane! I won’t let you down I promise!” Zidane chuckled, “But read a book or something. I won’t allow having you in my prison if you don’t know what you’re doing.”

 

“Of course, sir. I’ll be the most educated dropout guard this prison has ever seen,” James shook Zidane’s hand and headed off to the library to hit the books because _he got a job!_ A real, decent paying, job! 25 years, 11 months, and 3 days were all it took for James to figure out his life. And he wasn’t going to ruin it, not again.

 

How hard could it be? Being a guard couldn’t be that different from football- yelling, alertness, and strength were all traits of a good footballer, and a good prison guard too, apparently. As James walked into Zidane’s office the next Monday, informed and educated on how to watch after the prisoners, he felt nothing but nervousness, the reality hitting him like a brick. His job was to watch after _criminals,_ granted he learned it was a minimum prison, so the crimes committed could be worse, but still. They were all locked behind bars for a reason, they wouldn’t be scared of some new guard who looked 12 and just wanted to play football. He knocked on the office door twice and was given the approval to enter. He opened the door to see Zidane typing on his computer.

 

“Come, sit.” he said without looking up.

 

James wearily sat down and nervously fiddled with his finger. Zidane finished typing and swiveled around his desk to face James, “Nervous?” he asked.

 

“Um. Well not really, I-I’m more…” James sighed, “Yeah. Nervous as fuck.”

 

“Don’t worry, you’ll find the prisoners are mostly passive. Most here are just trying to get their time done with and move on with their lives. But, if you find them doing anything inappropriate and dangerous, that’s when you step in,” Zidane assured, “Okay, so your uniform is on that chair and I’ll have someone come show you around.”

 

“Wait, you’re not, like, going to quiz me? To see if I actually studied? What if I just hand out shots for reasons that aren’t legal?”

 

Zidane was silent for a second, trying to find the right words to satisfy his new employee, “James, tell me, what did you want to be when you grow up?”

 

“Footballer,” James admitted bashfully admitted without a second's thought.

 

“Well, no disrespect, but it seems like you’ve woken up from that dream. I’m not going to quiz you or make you take a test because I know how much this shitty job means to you. I know you’ll take it seriously and I know you’ll do what you have to do to keep it. I see a very determined, intelligent, and ambitious man in you, James, I’m sure you’ll do great here.” Zidane declared. James was taken back by Zidane’s trust in him. Nobody had ever called him intelligent before. Hearing those words from Zidane turned James’s anxious mind into a confident, fearless one. Zidane called in another guard, he had neatly trimmed brown hair and stern, but soft brown eyes. He had wrinkles around his cheekbones and under his eyes, but he had a certain youth to his posture. James learned he was Iker, his _tia’s_ friend’s husband’s little brother, and he was to show James around and teach him the ropes.

 

“This is CO Casillas. He’ll make sure you adapt well to the prison.” Zidane dismissed the two and Iker took James to the lockers. James saw the prisoners for the first time in, well, his life. Many of them were taller and bigger than James. They had tattoos and piercings and James felt those butterflies flutter back into his stomach like they had never left.

 

“Don’t be scared,” Iker said, “if they see you looked scared, they’ll find you an easy target.”

 

James nodded. He felt the eyes of the prisoners burning a hole in the back of his head, he looked down in an attempt to avoid any stares, but then remembered Iker’s words and picked his head up, straightened his shoulders, and looked one prisoner straight in the eye. He was taller than James with tan skin and short cropped brown hair. He had a very athletic build and looked like he cared about his hygiene a lot. James assumed he was a model before he got here. _Goddamn, he could fertilize my eggs,_ James thought. James looked down at the small red card clipped onto his tan uniform. It had a small picture of him and next to it was the word _‘Ronaldo’_ . James looked back up at Ronaldo’s eyes to see him with furrowed eyebrows and an amused smirk. James glared at his _cara de mierda hermosa_ and never left his eyes. James internally prayed to God that he actually looked intimidating and not an idiot.

 

James and Iker reached the locker room shortly after.

 

“Ok, this is your locker. In the mornings you come here through the back door so you don’t have to run to the prisoners. You change, then check in, then change, check out, and go home. _Bueno?_ ” Iker sounded a bit irritated to be stuck babysitting the new guy, but James didn’t mind. He would probably be pissed too. James set his uniform down inside his navy locker and looked at Iker with his head tilted and a confused look. _Wasn’t he supposed to wait outside or something?_

 

“Problem?” Iker asked.

 

“Um, aren’t you supposed to like...turn around?”

 

Iker sighed, “As much as it feels pervy to watch you change, it's the new policy. There was this one incident and now we have to make sure no one’s smuggling contraband to the prisoners.”

 

James quickly changed. He was always self-conscious about his body. Didn’t want the other guys on the team to see how he didn’t always have 3 meals a day or how he didn’t have a chest full of hair or how he wasn’t ‘packing the most heat’ as some of them said. Once James changed he excused himself to the bathroom. He pissed and washed his hands and looked in the small square mirror attached to the wall. James frowned, he looked like he was dressed for Halloween, not to be a fucking police guard. He ran a hand through his fluffy hair, hoping that would make him look somewhat more intimidating. It didn’t. _Why couldn’t Ma have married like...Ronaldo, then he would’ve been my literal papi and maybe I could be underwear modeling right now._ James shook his head, _f_ _uck no that’s weird_. James ran his hand through his hair one last time before walking out of the bathroom. Outside, Iker waited and handed him his belt. It held a pair of handcuffs, a baton, a radio, many other small items, and James’s favorite- pepper spray.

 

Iker patted him on the shoulder, “I think you’re ready,” he breathed.

 

Iker led James to the cafeteria where James would start. He told him it was breakfast time, which is usually in between 4:30 to 7. James checked his watch, it was 6:30. James entered the cafeteria’s main doors and was immediately hit with an abnormal amount of tan uniforms. It was almost like a school cafeteria, but with criminals. Prisoners were sitting at rectangular tables, chewing on eggs and toast from a brown tray, laughing and talking with their friends, some were even sleeping. On the other side of the main door was the kitchen. There were some prisoners wearing hair nets and scooping the tasteless eggs onto the plastic trays. James was bewildered. It wasn’t what he expected at all. James expected people in handcuffs, somehow throwing food at each other while standing or sitting on the floor. He didn’t expect a system so civilized, so school like. His eyes found Ronaldo, who looked at him back. He was sitting with on the edge of the table with a baldish man who James thought looked like a bulldog and another man who James predicted was in for child pornography, but he wasn’t going to judge. He was too far to see their tags, so James couldn’t find out who the friends of Ronaldo were.

 

“So where are you from?” Iker asked.

 

James snapped out of his trance and cleared his throat, “Colombia,” he responded proudly.

 

“Okay, then, you can watch over the Latinos,” Iker took James over to the corner of the cafeteria and had him stand next to the trash can there, “they usually sit at those 3 tables. Your job is to watch them and make sure nothing happens. Don’t get involved unless an inmate asks for it or you think it could be dangerous. They like to do some weird shit, and it’s okay to let them, just as long as no one gets hurt. I watch the main entrance, CO Hernandez watches the Spaniards and CO Modric watches over the other Europeans, so if you need anything, let me or them know,” Iker shrugged and let James loose.

 

James put on his serious face (not that it was that serious) and looked around the inmates he was responsible for. He briefly wondered why they sorted themselves based on nationality, but James just decided it was some unspoken prison rule. At one table there was a man with fluffy dark brown hair and a lighter shade beard. James was close enough to be able to decipher two S’s in his name while squinting, next to him was also a man with equally dark brown hair and beard, but there was a slightly tougher look to him than two S’s guy. They were quietly discussing something that James couldn’t hear, but they seemed harmless enough. James drifted his eyes to the table next to him. Based on the loud Portuguese, James deduced they were Brazilian, or Portuguese, but James doubted Portugal was in South America. There was a man with big hair, and James meant _big_ hair. He had warm eyes and a big smile. James wondered how a guy like him could’ve ended in prison, of all places. His Portuguese wasn’t the best, but James figured out he was talking about last week’s Real Madrid game to... _fuck_.

 

James blinked once, then twice, then three times, then rubbed his eyes to be sure. Why had Iker failed to mention a certain _Neymar fucking Jr_ was beyond him, but James couldn’t take his eyes off him. Neymar da Silva Santos Jr, born February 5, 1992, in Mogi das Cruzes, Brazil was (is?) a professional football player of FC Barcelona, winner of the FIFA Ballon d’Or, and a European champion. Convicted for tax evasion of €14,000,000, sentenced to 18 months at, apparently, Madrid Penitentiary, and not to mention, 10 fucking feet away from James. James didn’t know whether to go ask for an autograph or cry because he’s in charge of the safety of a Ballon d’Or winner. The big-haired guy noticed James staring and nudged Neymar with his elbow, pointing at James. James flushed and drifted his eyes elsewhere. Neymar turned and looked at James, and winked. James bit his lip and he thought he turned even redder if that was even possible. What else was he supposed to do? Say, ‘Hey inmate, sit the fuck down or you’ll bet your flat ass you be rotting in Seg for the rest of your miserable life,'? No, Neymar could probably drown him in money, then have his fans beat James up because he called his ass flat (not that that would be the worst way to die). James decided the best thing to do was to pretend there wasn’t a €500,000 a week, professional football player in the same room as him.

 

James checked his watch, 7:27, it read. The inmates were starting to finish their food and put their trays in the plastic bucket on top of the trash can next to the door. Iker gave James a nod and indicated that he was to watch everyone leave. He gave a small thumbs up, and Iker, Hernandez, and Modric walked out of the cafeteria. James walked over to the trash can and decided to learn some names while the inmates put their trays away. He learned the man with the beard a different color from his hair’s name was Messi, and his friend, Suarez. He learned Ronaldo’s friends, the probable pervert and the bulldog, were called Coentrao and Pepe, respectively. He learned the big-haired guy’s name was Vieira, and he discovered a Mascherano with Messi and Suarez and a Rafinha, Casemiro, and Danilo with Viera. Neymar was the last to leave. He slowly walked over to the trash, and carefully put his tray down. James thought it wasn’t fair to everyone else to treat Neymar like a celebrity in _prison,_  so he fixed him a strong glare. Neymar didn’t seem affected.

 

“Hey,” he said.

 

James noticed his voice sounded different from the interviews he gave on TV. It sounded more soft, more real. It didn’t have a rough twist like when he gave post-match interviews after a loss or the playful excitement of when he won an important match. It sounded smooth and...human. James also noticed he looked slightly different. On TV he always carried a cocky smirk and walked with swagger. His hair was always done to perfection and he always wore expensive designer clothes. Now, in his tan prison uniform and his ungelled hair, Neymar looked just like every other person serving his time, not a multimillionaire who could’ve just paid the judge to not go to jail.

 

“Um, you’re not supposed to be talking to an officer, you could get in trouble,” he whispered politely. Prison guard or not, he wasn’t an ass and wasn’t going to shove every inmate that looked at him. Neymar laughed and looked around the cafeteria when he found no one else in the cafeteria except James and him, he responded, " _Hermano_ , you’ve got a lot to learn,” and walked off. James only stared at Neymar’s back as he chased his friends back to the bunks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oof this ended so like...weird idk. and this chapter was super long soz. oh also i don't speak spanish so all the little spanish phrases came from spainshdict yeah so sorry again if they don't make sense.


	3. Chapter 3

The rest of the day passed uneventfully, then the week, then the week after. James completed his 5:30am-6pm shift with ease and came home to tell Tia Maria about his day, then lay in his warm bed until it was 5 am, and he had to do it all over again. James got into a healthy day to day routine in which he felt sane knowing what he was to do next. It was only three weeks after his first day where everything changed for a 25 year, 11 months, and 18 days old James. And he didn’t regret it, he  _ wouldn’t _ regret it, not even after his last dying breath (which he hoped it would be when he was 99 years and 364 days, bathing in a pile of cash while his great-grandchildren fanned him and fed him the most expensive and exotic food known to man). 

 

After three weeks, James became quite familiar with the prison. He understood the rules and the schedule and inmates. He properly learned how to properly punish the prisoners, when to give shots, and how to interact with them. He was becoming quite popular with the inmates, actually. Not strict, young, funny,  _ cute _ . When the inmates had a problem they went straight to him. And James absolutely loved it. He loved the newfound attention and loved how the inmates put so much trust in him. James treated them like actual humans, never hitting them, rarely giving shots, he didn’t even like yelling at them. In return, the inmates didn’t try any shit on him or gave him a hard time. He, in particular, became close to Ronaldo and his gang. James didn’t know whether to say he was friends with Ronaldo, but they certainly were at the line of inmate-guard relationships. It started when James, unable to hold his curiosity about the great Ronaldo, went up to him one day while he was juggling a football, and asked why he was in prison. Ronaldo laughed and told James to juggle to the ball. 

 

“Why?” asked James, perplexed. 

 

“If you manage to juggle it 20 times, I’ll tell you,” Ronaldo answered.

 

James did it with ease. He juggled the ball 21 times without breaking a sweat. Ronaldo raised his eyebrows, impressed at his skill, “I think the real question is, why did  _ you _ take this job?”

 

James soon learned that asking why a person was in prison was one of those unspoken rules of what  _ not _ do to. 

 

“I was just trying to help my family, you know?” Ronaldo started as he and James sat down in a shady pile of grass, away from the other inmates and guards, “We were very poor, my siblings and I had to share one room the size of a bunk. So, I asked my mom if I could try to become a football player because I thought I was really good at it. She let me, and it turns out, I wasn’t good enough. My mom had basically given up everything for me to be a footballer and I had failed,” Ronaldo sighed, “I needed to pay her back so I decided to go to the rich area in my city and when the people left their houses, I would go in and take their stuff. I would sell it to the locals and bring the money back home for my family. But one house had fucking security cameras and caught me. It was either pay for everything I stole, or serve some time.”

 

James was shocked at how similar his story was to Ronaldo’s. The only difference was that James didn’t resort to crime to help his family. 

 

“Um, me too. I wanted to be a footballer too,” James confessed. 

 

Ronaldo nodded, “So...why didn’t you?”

 

“I almost went pro,” James stated proudly, “but I got injured badly and was never able to get back.”

 

Ronaldo nodded again, looking down at James thoughtfully, “Where are you from?” he asked.

 

“Colombia.”

 

“Alright  _ parcero _ ,” Ronaldo stood up and picked up the football, then dropped it to the ground, “let's pass the ball a little.”

 

From then on, for the next two weeks, in between breakfast and lunch, James met Ronaldo in a small unseen corner in the yard. They kicked the used, old football and told each other about their lives. He learned that Ronaldo’s Portuguese (proving his theory that Portugal is not in South America), he had a son, and he was 32. Ronaldo never mentioned his first name, though, but James didn’t think it was relevant, another unspoken prison rule. The most surprising thing James learned, was Ronaldo’s little crush on a certain short Argentinian.      

 

“You watch the Latinos, yeah?” he asked one day, passing the ball to James. The Colombian nodded, passing the ball back. 

 

“Well, you know, Leo right?” Ronaldo lifted the ball with his foot and volleyed it to James. James trapped it and shook his head. 

 

“The short one with the, you know, beard and stuff. He sits with the bald guy.” James passed the ball.

 

“Oh! Messi, right?”

 

Ronaldo picked up the ball, threw it at the corner of the fence, and sat down. James followed. 

 

“Yeah. Um, does he ever like...talk...about, um, about me?” Ronaldo rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks tinted pink. 

 

“No, not that I know of,” James shrugged, “I don’t really pay attention to what he talks about. Why?”

 

Ronaldo shrugged, looking away from James. 

 

James tilted his head, confused, then slowly started to put the pieces together, and gasped, “You like him! Oh my god, you have a crush!”

 

“Shut up!” Ronaldo hissed, the pink running from his cheeks to his neck. 

 

James smiled teasingly and began to tug his shirt, “Tell you what, I’ll try to find out if he likes you back, because I’m such a nice person, if…”

 

“If?” Ronaldo asked.

 

“If...oh! If you tell me your first name!” James exclaimed.

 

Ronaldo raised his eyebrows and looked at him in amusement, “That’s it?”

 

“Well it’s not like you can do much for me anyways.” the younger shrugged.

 

Ronaldo chuckled and held out his hand, “Deal.”

 

James went to shake it, before a lightbulb went out in his head and he quickly pulled it back, “Wait! I also wanna meet your friends. Get to know all the relevant inmates at Madrid.” 

 

“Double deal,” Ronaldo said and James grabbed his hand firmly and shook it twice.

 

James learned Ronaldo’s first name was Cristiano.

 

He then went on to meet Cristiano’s small gang of friends, Ramos, Pepe, Coentrao, Bale, and Vieira (he preferred Marcelo). 

 

James knew he was probably breaking the law and could land himself in the same tan uniform as his friends, but that was just the thing-  _ friends _ . They were something James, admittedly hasn’t had much of in his 25 years- 26 in 6 days. But here, in prison of all places, James found these  _ criminals _ to be more interesting, funny, and friendly than any friend he had in his school, or even football, days. Instead of just Cristiano and him, it would become Cristiano, Marcelo, Ramos, Pepe, and him. Sometimes Coentrao and Bale would join in their extremely small game of football. It was a bit funny in a dark matter, James thought, that the worst he’d ever done was steal a lemon from his neighbor’s lemon tree when he was 10, yet here he was, making fun of a man who’d stolen €10,000 worth of lemons for his crush on another inmate, having a freestyle contest against a man who’d been involved in transporting drugs, and sneaking in Cheetos for a man who fucking robbed a bank. 

 

He was able to pay his own rent, buy his own food and clothes, and was able to send a good amount of money to his Ma and sister back in Colombia (he felt he soon wouldn’t have to because Juana planned on becoming a fucking model. James even tried to slap her into reality by telling her she was, in fact, related to him, that they share the same genes. Juana said it’s not her fault God gave him their great ancestors, the apes, their genes.)

 

In summary, James concluded that his life was fucking amazing (of course a girlfriend who’d appreciate his ape-like features would be nice, but he wasn’t complaining). He had a great job inside Madrid Penitentiary, great criminal friends, and his family were happy. Most importantly, he was happy. 

 

But it was only on his 26th birthday where his life would take a drastic turning point. 


	4. Chapter 4

“Happy Birthday Rodriguez,” Iker patted him on the back when he entered the locker room. 

 

“Thank you.” the now 26-year-old politely responded. 

 

He changed from his Adidas joggers and t-shirt quickly into his CO uniform, wrapped on his belt, and headed out to the cafeteria. He mainly took breakfast duty, watching the Latinos, then while Iker and Hernandez (he preferred Xavi) got ready for count, he would make sure all the inmates safely left the cafeteria. Breakfast went by smoothly and soon the inmates started piling out of the cafeteria.

 

“You only turn 26 once,” Cristiano put his tray away, “so Marce, Serg, Pepe, and I have a surprise for you. Meet us at the spot in an hour?”

 

“I swear to God if you somehow brought a stripper…”

 

“How did you know!” Cristiano mock gasped, then laughed and walked back to his bunk.

 

Marcelo, Ramos, Pepe, Bale, and Coentrao all wished him a happy birthday before patting him on the back and leaving for their respective bunks. 

 

“It’s Welsh tradition to bring someone a gift on their birthday, so here,” Bale handed him a bouquet of paper flowers, “so yeah um  _ feliz cumpleaños _ .”

 

James took the flowers and gave Bale a grateful look, “Thanks, Gareth, but I think that’s tradition everywhere,” he laughed and Bale laughed with him. 

 

Eventually, the cafeteria was empty, well, mostly empty. It became a regular thing, James didn't know why, but it did. Every day after breakfast when everyone left there was always that one person left. That person always stood up after the entire room was empty, put his tray away, then proceeded to stare at James for a good 20 seconds before chasing after his friends. 

 

That person was no other than Neymar Jr.

 

James didn’t ever question why he and Neymar would have these daily, silent staring contests and he never asked Marcelo about it, although he knew he should. But James never asked Marcelo or confronted the millionaire footballer because James didn’t have a clue what answer he was or should be expecting. James didn’t have a single idea why someone like  _ Neymar fucking Jr _ , the current best player in the world even glance once, let alone twice, at someone like James. And although he would never admit it to himself, James enjoyed the attention he got from Neymar. It wasn’t every day the most famous player in football found an interest in your face (well to James it now was everyday, actually) and he didn’t want to ruin it. He was afraid if he confronted Neymar, he would be disgusted that a piece of scum like James would even question him and stop. James didn’t want to stop looking into Neymar’s piercing eyes. 

 

But when the cafeteria was empty except for the two, James thought  _ fuck it _ ,  _ it’s your birthday _ ,  _ treat yourself.  _

 

“Is this a thing you do?” He asked Neymar as he slowly put his tray in the bucket. 

 

Neymar didn’t answer.

 

“You wait until everyone’s left so you can stare at a CO. Why?” James couldn’t believe he was talking to Neymar like this. 

 

Neymar opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again after a few seconds, “I know you. You...you played football. You played good football, really good.” 

 

James furrowed his eyebrows, he doesn’t even moderately remember seeing Neymar anywhere, and even if he had somehow met Neymar, he would’ve definitely remembered it.  

 

“I went to Colombia for a friendly,” Neymar started, “it was against Envigado. Your club. We won, but you played so well like the ball was glued to your foot whenever you touched it.”

 

James couldn’t remember.

 

“How, how do you remember that? Wait, how do you remember  _ me _ ?”

 

Neymar shrugged, “Meet me here in an hour and I’ll tell you...James- that’s your name, right?”

 

James was baffled at how Neymar knew all this about him. It was borderline stalkerish, but who gave it a shit- it was Neymar. 

 

“How do you kn-” but Neymar’s back was already turned towards James and before the Colombian knew it, he was gone. 

 

James, still wide-eyed and opened mouth, only one word came to his mind-  _ fuck _ .

 

“Hey Ronaldo, I need to talk to you,” James said with the most authoritative voice he could muster. The Colombian leaned on the door of the TV room where Cristiano was sitting with his Portuguese friends, watching the Real Madrid match. James couldn’t help but glance at the TV for a second and smiled at the 3-0 to Madrid. He couldn’t help but get attached to the club that Cristiano and Co. all so dearly loved. 

 

Cristiano said a quick goodbye to his friends, then stood up and pushed in his chair. He followed James outside the room and James shut the door shut. 

 

“So what’s up man. 26 treating you well?” 

 

“So um, listen Cris…” James started, “I know you care it’s my birthday and stuff and I’m glad about that but...um…” James trailed. Cristiano looked at him expectantly, eyebrows slightly raised. James knew he had to say something at least, so he brought some words to his head and cleared his throat, “I can’t meet up with you today.”

 

“Um sorry I didn’t hear you,” Cristiano bent down to James’s level and cupped his hand around his ear, “did you just say I gave 3 whole bags of Cheetos to the Spanish so we could use the kitchen to bake a cake for you for nothing? Oh, plus another 5 to the Brazilians so we could have the TV room.”

 

The Colombian felt the eyes of some inmates watching Cris make ‘inappropriate’ gestures to a guard and quickly said, “Stand upright inmate, you’re going to hurt your back.” Cristiano rolled his eyes but stood up nonetheless. 

 

“I’m sorry, I really am, but I got invited but this  _ other _ really hot Portuguese speaker who somehow knows me and shit and it could be pretty important. Like what if he like threatens to kill my family if I don’t shorten his sentence?” James hastily whispered.

 

Cris’s lips immediately turned upwards at ‘really hot Portuguese speaker’, “So you think I’m hot?”

 

“So you’re not mad?”

 

Cris’s smirk got wider, “So you called me hot?”

 

“Yes Cris, I called you and your dumbass hot.” James sighed. In the corner of his eye, he saw Zidane walking across the hall.  _ Shit _ , James thought and tried to signal with his eyes to Cristiano that Zidane was walking past them. Cristiano didn’t notice or ignored him. 

 

“Aw, thanks! I think you’re pretty cute too. Like a hot baby. Wait that doesn’t make me sound pedophillic, does it? Anyways, even though I think you’re cute, just remember I only have eyes for-”

 

“Okay, that’s a shot inmate!” James exclaimed, eyes following Zidane as he gave James a small nod in approval. James thought Zidane would just continue his stroll, but (in the inmates’ words) the  _ calvo hijueputa  _ turned tail and started walking towards  _ them _ . James didn’t have time to send Cristiano and apologetic look before the Frenchman was right behind the Portuguese’s back.

 

“THE FUCK DID I DO?” Cristiano shouted, genuinely surprised. 

 

“Keep your voice, and your profanity, down before I give you two shots,” James growled. He hated this. He hated having to punish, real or fake, the inmates because, unlike school, prison punishments were serious. They were the difference between getting out early on good behavior or even getting your sentence extended. 

 

“So what’s going on here?” Zidane butted in. 

 

Cristiano jumped in surprise and spun around to see the  _ calvo hijueputa _ , and scowled at him. If he was already in trouble, what did it matter to get in even more trouble?

 

James paused for a second, he hadn’t even thought of  _ why _ he was giving Cristiano a shot in the first place. Luckily, James was a master at bullshitting.

 

“I caught this inmate talking about cooking in the kitchen and I asked him if he was actually in the kitchen and he said yes,” James explained. 

 

Zidane raised one eyebrow and nodded, “And why is that a problem?”

 

“Because inmates aren’t allowed to touch any equipment that doesn’t belong to their specific work assignment. Ronaldo could’ve grabbed the knife and seriously injured people, sir.”

 

Zidane nodded again slowly and patted James on the back and told him he was doing good. Cristiano’s eyes never stopped glaring daggers into the warden’s shiny head.

 

“Very well, James. You’re doing good. Now write the shot and continue.”

 

James bit his lip and hesitantly took out his shot book. He slowly wrote the name ‘Cristiano Ronaldo’ and filled out the report. He caught Cristiano’s frustrated eyes. He’d luckily kept quite and James mentally reminded himself to thank Cristiano for that. Zidane patted the Colombian’s shoulders one last time before stalking away down the hall. The CO let out a breath he didn't know he was holding and walked into the TV room, pointing at Cristiano to follow. 

 

“What the FUCK?!” Cristiano was fuming, “you couldn't think of a better excuse, so you wrote me a shot? I've had enough, one too many and I won't be able to be let out early.”

 

James opened his mouth, then closed it. There was no one else in the room other than Cristiano, Marcelo, Pepe, and Ramos. So he took out his shot book, flipped to Cristiano’s page and ripped it out. He handed the shot into Cristiano.

 

“Get rid of it,” he said.

 

“But, you could get in trouble?”

 

James shook his head, “I don't care.”

 

Cristiano slowly nodded then took the paper, he slipped it into his pocket, then chuckled, “You know, Zidane wasn’t always a piece of shit.”

 

Pepe, Marcelo, and Ramos made sounds of agreement. James tilted his head. Yeah sure, he could be intimidating and scary as hell, but James didn’t think he was doing anything wrong with the prison.

 

“How so?” he questioned.

 

Cristiano sighed and pulled out a seat from the under the roundtable that the other guys sat around and sat down. James followed. 

 

“Zidane was my counselor when I first came here. I was scared shitless-”

 

“That’s an understatement,” Ramos sniggered. 

 

Cristiano rolled his eyes, “Anyways, Zidane was there for me. I used to come into his office and he would comfort me and shit. Made me feel welcome. He said it was unfortunate that the poor have to resort to crimes because the government can’t help them, then they proceed to call them terrible criminals with no morals. I thought he was the coolest bald dude I’ve ever met. But then the old warden, Ancelotti, left and they promoted Zidane. And then shit just got worse.”

 

“Like at first he I think he made the prison, well, better, or he tried to at least. He raised our pay from 10 cents to 20, got us actual crispy lettuce, and just fixed the small things that made life easier.” Marcelo shrugged.

 

“So what happened?” The youngest asked. He didn’t find anything wrong so far.

 

This time Ramos chipped in, “He just stopped caring, I guess. I think he got a divorce with his wife. Like overtime, he just stopped. He lowered our wage back to 10 cents, then lowered it even more to 5. He stopped ordered crispy lettuce and we’re back to the soggy ass type. And he’s paying the bare minimum for shit like the electric fees and gas and water. Of course, you don’t realize that stuff, but if you have to live here 24 hours a day, it sucks.”

 

“He also kinda stopped caring about  _ us _ , not just the prison itself. That’s why we’re able to talk to you without getting in trouble. Like yeah, it’d be bad for if he caught us, but it’s not like he’ll fire you. There was this one incident where someone was somehow bringing drugs into the prison, I think it was the French. You know, that shit does things here. Groups were going into fucking war, yet Zidane didn’t even lift a finger to help. He was jacking off to a picture of his wife in his office while inmates were on the verge of fucking killing each other.” Pepe added.

 

James, guiltily, was intrigued, “What- what happened?” he leaned over the table in curiosity.

 

Pepe smirked, “The leader of the French, Varane, somehow escaped. I don’t have a fucking clue where he is or what he’s doing, but he got away with it. From there, the whole French mafia thing kinda died out without their leader and things were chill again. But during that, a lot of COs quit because they were dealing with serious shit that they weren’t getting paid enough for, and so we were seriously understaffed and then Zidane realized that he actually had to get off his ass and do something,” he leaned in closer to James, “ever wonder why Modic always looks like he has no fucking idea what he’s doing? It’s because he doesn’t. Doing something for that  _ calvo hijueputa _ apparently meant hiring whoever applied, no matter how clueless they were.” 

 

James flushed and looked down at his thighs because  _ he was one those clueless idiots ( _ but it’s not like he was going to admit it). 

 

“I’m, um, sorry. I really am, that seemed terrible.” 

 

Cristiano cleared his mouth and James lifted his eyes to Cristiano’s.

 

“So anyways...care to explain why the fuck we can’t celebrate and eat some fucking delicious cake made by me in approximately 10 minutes?”

 

The rest of the guys let out bewildered shouts and James flushed even more.

 

“Um, oh, you know, stuff.”

 

Cristiano raised an unamused eyebrow, crossed his arms, and stared at James expectantly. The rest copied his motions. 

 

“Okay, okay!” James raised his arms in surrender, “Neymar told me to meet him in the cafeteria-” Cristiano opened his mouth to protest, but James quickly cut him off, “he knew shit about me. Like how I used to play football and he knew my  _ first name _ . That’s like weird, right?”

 

“That rich ass  _ malparido _ plays, or played I guess, football too. I don’t think it would be too hard to cross paths.” Ramos claimed.

 

James gave a thought shrug, then shook his head, “I don’t think it’s just a ‘ _ he remembers me from a friendly I played when I was 17’  _ thing. And I’m sorry! We can push the party back 30 minutes, yeah? I’ll be there and we eat some possibly poisoned cake Cris made?”

 

Cristiano shared and look with Marcelo, Ramos, and Pepe and slowly nodded his head.

 

“You better not replace us with that fucker, Rodriguez.” Marcelo joked and punched his shoulder. 

 

“But I don’t think we can still have that party,” Pepe said, “the Brazilians will want the TV room back and I’m out of Cheetos.”

 

James only grinned and patted Pepe’s shoulder, “Yeah, but the difference between me and you is you have Cheetos, and I have a shot record. Don’t worry.” and he headed off towards the cafeteria where he would meet the one and only  _ Neymar Jr _ . 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woah look a plot.

**Author's Note:**

> so i started writing this in like july so like everything’s a bit outdated and shit so sorry abt that. also, i planned for this just to be like a one shot thing but it's taken 19 pages on my google docs and i don’t think i’m even halfway done w/ this so i just decided to split it up into chapters so sorry if they kind of end weirdly! and i just realized that some chapters are a lot longer or shorter than others because i wanted them to like flow and shit so sorry about that too! also this is lowkey inspired by oitnb and i have like 5ish chapters done rn.


End file.
